


after utapau

by shanlyrical



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Crying, Darkfic, Guilt, Held Down, M/M, Nightmares, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-12 22:12:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19238119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanlyrical/pseuds/shanlyrical
Summary: Cody has bad dreams after the assault on Utapau.





	after utapau

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowersforgraves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/gifts).



CC-2224, the Clone Commander of the 212th Attack Battalion best known among his fellow soldiers as “Cody,” has bad dreams after the assault on Utapau.

War is hard – everybody knows that – and even for Kaminoan clones who have been bred for the battlefield, bad dreams are common. They’re nothing. They don’t mean anything in particular. And if a brother awakens thrashing and screaming, cold sweat soaking through his sheets, the brothers who were bedded down with him in the barracks that night do him the favor of not acknowledging the trouble.

Before Utapau, he’d never personally had these sorts of problems. His mind was unusually stable and strong, the top 0.06% of his cohort – and this is why he was elevated to his position as a commanding officer in the first place. But things are very different now.

He wonders if it might have something to do with the execution of Order 66 and General Kenobi and how he’d had to…to…  

Cody tells no one about these bad dreams. He doesn’t think anybody would understand.

The venue changes from night to night. Sometimes they’re in a pup tent, the thin, armorweave fabric the only thing which separates them from the beating rain and the rest of the field unit. Sometimes they’re in a space cruiser’s private quarters, and Cody can feel more than hear the hum of the hyperdrive. Sometimes they’re in a palace, or a modest home, or a hovel.

Tonight they’re in a dive bar, stinking of cheap spirits and vomit and the sour bodies of half a hundred species. The strobing lights make the insides of Cody’s temples pound, and deafening thrum of the music assaults Cody’s eardrums. No one notices him here; no one cares. He might as well be invisible.

 _They_ might as well be invisible.

The restraints, too. _He_ doesn’t need ropes or cuffs or any physical bonds whatsoever to keep Cody exactly where…and how… _he_ wants him.

So tonight he’s being held down, bent over the filthy surface of a table in the corner. The sharp edge digs into stomach as his trousers – oh, is he wearing civilian clothing tonight? – are yanked down to his ankles, and his buttocks are pried apart, the blunt fingernails scratching him heedlessly, and he is exposed, vulnerable to ruthless inspection.

He anus tightens reflexively, like it would prevent what is about to happen if it could, but there is no stopping it. No stopping _him_. The tongue which touches the wrinkled pucker is slick and wet, and it writhes against Cody’s sensitive flesh like a parasitic trench worm, probing, seeking, _penetrating_ —

Cody moans as the tongue pushes inside of him, then pushes deeper, stretching his inner walls with cleverly twisting swipes. He feels the crush of the nose, the facial hair tickling his tender flesh. He feels the moan of wanton desire, the hum of amused satisfaction.

It’s over quickly. But he might have preferred differently. This is all the preparation Cody can expect to receive, and what follows will be worse.

The body behind him shifts, stands, and covers Cody. Cody’s shirt is pushed up so that his back is bared and the equally bared, warm, sweat-damp chest can rest skin to skin against him. The facial hair that had so recently tickled him down below now tickles him behind his ear, and the hot breath – smelling both of Cody and of _himself_ , their scents horrifically, intimately intermingled, an obscene parody of this union – makes him pimply with gooseflesh.

“Why did you do it?” The question is no louder than a whisper.

“I-I…” Cody moans. Although he can’t move, he can talk…at least theoretically. But every time this happens, for reasons he doesn’t fully understand, he is tongue-tied.

“I trusted you with my life, and you betrayed me. You gave the order to fire. You tried to _kill_ me.”

“No! No, I—” If he were able to explain, he would, but he can’t. If he were able to say I loved you, he would, but he can’t.  _He can’t._ He can only…only…

Too late.

Hips align, and the thick, durasteel length of cock presses against him, presses into him, first slowly, then faster, until it fills him, as far as it can go, scrotum crushed against him. He thinks he is going to burst, to tear—

“Ah… Cody…” The nickname is a sigh on his lips as he starts to thrust.

The pace is not hard, not cruel. No, not that, not cruel. He was never cruel to Cody or to anyone. But it _is_ firm and rhythmic and powerful and relentless, and it is unerring as it strikes a sensitive, swollen place within again and again and again, making his cock jerk and ache and leak thick, slick strings of precome onto the floor. Cody weeps, the tears clotting in his lashes and trickling down his cheeks. If only he could move, grip the table, pull away from the penetration, or push _into_ it. But he can’t. Distantly, he realizes that he is wailing. The sound is mostly wordless, an animal’s cry, a beast’s, except for one word. A name.

“Obi…Wan…!”

No, no, Cody doesn’t want this, not like this, never like this, but the thrusts are accelerating, and they are close, so close, so close! Aaahhh, if only, if only, but no, no, he can’t stop himself—

He stills, coming inside Cody, a sudden flush of heat, and Cody is coming right along with him, untouched, semen spattering the underside of the table and the floor with a violent spray—

—and he is screaming, screaming, _screaming_ himself awake.

Cody sits bolt upright, eyes wide and frightened, but he is no longer in the dive bar. He is in his sleeping berth on the Star Destroyer _Vengeance_ , and the time is 0655 hours. He rises, dons his blacks and his plastisteel armor. His brothers of the 212th are doing the same. They do not speak of Cody’s bad dreams; they probably have some bad dreams of their own. At 0800 hours, the battalion will make planetfall and begin a mop-up operation on Onderon. The Separatists may have been soundly defeated, their leadership dead in battle or executed. Unfortunately, not all Separatists have yet to receive the message.

But they do not hunt  _him_. Although he is out there in the galaxy somewhere, he is not their – not Cody’s – responsibility to apprehend anymore. 

War is hard, and the war isn’t over yet…not for Cody, not for Palpatine’s new Empire, and not for…for…

 _General Obi-Wan Kenobi_.


End file.
